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BIG BEHIND \  \ n [Creole American: big as in
"The Big Easy, mon cher" + Middle English: behinde, from
behind, behind - more at hind] 1. being left really far behind at
the Rapture, as in you're going to be a hot wing for Shaitan, you Tom fool!
"Big" in this case is a meaning amplifier, connoting
"very" or "a lot." 2. archaic: a large set of buttocks
The red heiffer has been born and the Rapture has occurred, that "snatching away" of
living Christian Fundamentalists out of their pickups, snowmobiles,
concrete-block congregations and tea parties, into the sky, through the clouds ... to meet
Jesus in the sky ... with diamonds. "In one cataclysmic instant,
millions ... disappeared ... leaving behind ... clothes, eyeglasses,
hairpieces" (it should be noted that The HairClub adamantly maintains
that hairpieces shall participate in The Rapture). The time of
Tribulation ensues, the titanic battle between good and evil ... a time of
unspeakable terrors ... tax and spend, medical marijuana, gay marriage, Gog & Magog...the Armageddon Rumba.
"Oh, you better not
cry, you better not pout,
don't get high, I'm telling you why:
Antichrist is coming to town!"
There's bad boogie in Ur-Megiddo (as much as possible, I will use the local versions of important place names). Only a thin line of righteous, post-Rapture heroes - Zeke, Ray,
Albie, Luke, Mac, Buck, Smitty (yes, these are the actual character names),
the Tribulation or Trib Force - stand between reigning champion, "Smokin' Joe" Beelzebub, and Baby Jesus "The Glorious Savior" Christ, both resurrected one last time, for Don King's Match of the Millennium: Holocaust in the Holy Land!
"... during the
tribulation, the Anti-Christ ... will halt
all normal means of purchasing food ... and obtaining employment.
Only by receiving the mark of the beast ... will anyone be able to
continue functioning in society."
"End Time
Visions" by Richard Abanes
"I'll go along with the charade
until I can think my way out."
Bob Dylan, "Tight Connection to My Heart"
In these difficult end-times, most of us liberals, to no
one's surprise, end up on our callused knees fervently salaaming to the
Supreme Evil Potentate (no, Mr. Limbaugh, neither Mrs. Clinton nor Nancy Pelosi): "Yes, Your
Unholiness; No, Your Unholiness; Right away, Your Unholiness;"
scurrying for his slippers, howling and snorting at his jokes, lighting his Tiparillos, and mixing his Ovaltine. Just trying to keep the Beast happy in the million, little
ways that say "Don't pull my legs off like a Daddy Long-Legs, oh Goat-headed One."
We're Satan's posse
or Rat Pack: well-meaning, lemonade-out-of-lemons-making Quislings putting the smiliest face and stiffest upper lip possible on the nasty surprise of waking
up inside "Survivor: The Book of Revelation."
Buck up, Bubu, if we could get through Bush/Cheney/DeLay, we can get through this.
"Luuuucy, you got some 'splaining to do!"
Judgment Day at the
Ricky Ricardos
Of course, even the rough-riding, Hummer-driving Trib Forcers wish they had kept their noses clean
in the first place and taken the ten minutes to burn down the Planned Parenthood office. How they regret now the horseplay down at the pool hall, the evening
doobies, the porn and crank weekends with the boys, not to mention--Sweet Mother of
Christ!--the long, lazy daydreams in church: Ms. Betty Lou Hamms, buns up and
panties down, frilly Sunday school dress thrown up over her head. Frankly,
that last, enthralling temptation was not giving up without a fight.
"Get thee behind me, Devil!"
The exact words Betty Lou used in the fantasy, the flirty
trollop. Facilis Descensus Averno. Virgil said it: Easy is the descent to hell. Oh yes it is. (Frankly, too easy. It's like the Good Lord greased the slide with Crisco. Wheee!) Hello Betty Lou's round, rosy bottom; goodbye salvation.
Hello! Heaven to Trib Force! You should have known better.
They must have been bamboozled by the
Dark Lord of Befoulment, addled by the drugs, duped by the liberal media, befuddled by
the heinous debauchery (jeesh, they're going to miss the debauchery) ... if only they had it all to do over again ...they'd definitely put the metal fish thingee on the back of their Silverados.
Isn't that always the way? Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Now,
they're sorry. Meanwhile, Deacon Enoch, his wife, Enid, and all the other
first round Draft Picks flew straight up to heaven right out of their
Lazy-Boys, naked as Oscar Mayer wieners, shooting their guns in
celebration, and shouting with understandable glee, "I tole you so!
You gonna git it now! Hee hee, hoo boy! I'll show you about Intelligent Design. Oh yes, indeedy! Fry, sinners, fry!
My God is a hellaciously vengeful God!"
"Now all the
gays and Democrats will never more be seen;
they'll all be turned to sausage meat in Anti-Christ's machine!"
So while the Trib Force fights the final battle through 25
projected volumes, Enoch and Enid are clapping and singing White Man's hymns, munching pork rinds, slurping Piggly
Wiggly big gulps, and enjoying the gruesome, unfolding horror from
stadium-style seating in Paradise. They have found their sweet reward at
the right hand of the Infinitely Merciful Lord. Though in this instance,
"infinitely" signifies "very selectively," "erratically"
or "let's see the mothers dance a little first." It's kind of
like the modifier "compassionate" in compassionate conservative.
Frankly, if His nickname was
"The Big Merciful," (see definition at top) we'd all be in
better shape, and could feel more comfortable about our impending blind
date with eternity.
According to authors LaHaye and Jenkins, the Israelis didn't
qualify for the Rapture's first cut - umm, you know, being Jews and all - but
shrewdly converted en masse to holy-rolling Christianity as soon as they
saw which way the wind was blowing. Mr. Dobson, Christ's Director of HR, made them an offer they couldn't refuse (Sweet Loving Bosom of the Redeemer or spontaneous disembowelment, then viscious, never-ending torture). Oh Lordy,
they're speaking in tongues; they're clapping and swaying like Mahalia. And if their smiles are a little manic, they're still skipping down that yellow-brick road behind the righteous munchkins of the Republican congress...
"You cooked a
harmless woman with a big mouth."
"Desecration," by LaHaye & Jenskins,
Antichrist to henchman
I'm afraid things didn't work out so nicely for the Log
Cabin Republicans, despite their generous political donations. Sorry, what
with the high season and all, there just "ain't no room." Heaven
don't want 'em, the Trib Force don't want 'em; only the Pope of Perdition
welcomes homosexuals...as well as Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Papists, Episcopalians,
yoga and Pilates practitioners, women's libbers, longhairs,
pornographers, Darwinists, environmentalists, peaceniks, pro-choice-niks, anti-gun-niks,
foreigners and Marty Sheen, hereafter to be
collectively referred to as "the Damned." But oh, what a welcome!
Each and every sinner is greeted with a tender, simpering rendition of Mr. Joel's "Just the Way You Are" and the dark angel opens up his goat
shanks, and wraps his tail around you in a way that says "You're
home now, baby" far more eloquently than any banner and party horns.
In a trice, you're bound tightly over the barrel, your trousers are pulled down and a white-hot brand--with the owner's triple-digit logo--pressed firmly to your stretched bottom. Sizzly sizzly! How everyone laughs at the parade of expressions on your face! You're family now!
To keep everyone entertained during the Interregnum -- until the iron lid of the abyss opens to reveal the dark chute to everlasting life -- the Beast is bringing back the
entire supporting casts of "Seinfeld," "Reno 911" and "Grey's Anatomy" for their own separate prime time shows! And the radio plays nothing but Lionel Ritchie's "Hello"! (As interpreted and sung by the Performer of the Millennium, Ms. Whore of Babylon!)
Sure, it gets old, Christ yes, real old - that's why it's called the Tribulation, Bozo. But at least Ol' Beelzebub's trying to make this hootenanny a success.
"Nobody knows me like the Lord...
and He don't like me."
Old, Wise Negro Spiritual
JC, on the other hand, is taking His own sweet time. This
is His big John-Travolta Pulp-Fiction-like comeback moment, and he's not
going to rush it. I'll tell you one thing though: He's tired of being Mr. Doe-Eyed
Whimpy-Looking Guy. Ha! The "Jesus Loves You" campaign didn't produce the results! Now He wants some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Instead of fishes, loaves and wine coolers, He's gonna
open a Costco-sized can of painful whoop-ass! Yes, yes, the iron rod! And last but not least, His immaculate heart is
absolutely set on ... an expensive blow-it-all-to-Kingdom-come finale.
But first, the stage must be set just so: cups of doom, seals of doom,
horsemen of doom, baked beans of doom (basically anything that includes
doom is a go); plaguey buboes, suppurating ulcers, oceans of hemoglobin,
uber-locusts, heads on sticks, tax cuts for the rich, aliens with really
long fingernails, bulldogs with human faces! You get the idea - special effects, blasting soundtrack, car-crashing that never ends, utter defilement and atrocity. Giving the fans what they want.
Wait! Am I getting the Book of Revelation mixed up with the latest Jerry
Bruckheimer production? I'm a bit discombobulated by so much
abomination - being more a Meg Ryan/Sandra Bullock romantic comedy kind of
guy. Well, in any case, it doesn't really matter - End o' Time or "Con
Air 2" - the idea's basically the same.
In fact, life in these pre-Kingdom-of-Heaven days is so grisly and grotesque - I mean Wowza!
- that frankly, if it was anyone else - say Quentin Tarantino or Mel Gibson - I'd suspect mental illness. No Geneva
conventions apply in Big-Behind-Time! I just hope and pray it
doesn't arrive while I'm stoned - I'm real vulnerable then, prone
to hallucinations, and even more paranoid than usual. My decision-making
capability, never strong at the best of times, is sadly compromised.
I think we all need to accept that violent unpredictability and
impenetrable incomprehensibility have always played a big part in the
divine mystique, and that a certain type of bucolic fundamentalist really
digs that. It reminds 'em of strap-happy Pappy! But it's not for me to quibble at His methods - I'm not perfect
either. (No, don't argue with me on this, I've got beams in my eyes.) I can
get real cranky when Jeanine puts my white underpants in with the colored
wash. An even better reason to avoid quibbling is that
the Big Fella, much like my current boss for that matter, is not real good with criticism or wacky humor not of His own
devising. He's more a hosannas and
wiffle-ball interview kind of guy. (He loved the Reader's
Digest piece on the First Lady.)
"Ward, you were a little hard on the Beaver last night""
June Cleaver expressing her concern regarding husband Ward’s
treatment
of her beloved, freckled Beaver
One last thing: there seems to be some confusion about the
necessity for the whole tribulation jig in the first place, especially
among bleeding hearts destined for a long, rough ride between Shaitan's
hairy thighs. ("Yee haw! Squeal like a pig!" - Like most of us,
the Prince of Darkness has seen way too many movies ... and hopes
eventually to sell a screenplay.) Why can't we all just be washed squeaky, spring-fresh clean and
forgiven, wrapped in the soft robes of purity, welcomed into the Big Tent
of Love, to be blissful together throughout all eternity at the
sweet-smelling foot of the Lord - you know, like happy, innocent, squealing
children hopping naked through the sprinkler on a hot summer afternoon
under Gramps' indulgent gaze?
Because it's in the Bible, mo-ron!
See, you knew there was a good reason. I suggest you start minding your Ps
and Qs, Bubbalouey, and stop with all the why questions.
The Old Man is down the road, He's pissed off and He's choogling our way.
He's going to have his rodeo whether you like it or not. The only
question now, Merry Pranksters, is this: Are you on the bus or are you off the bus? Thanks to the blessing of free will, it's your call.
Antichrist is coming
to town!
Endnote: for those stubborn halfwits still maintaining
self-destructive doubts about the impending Rapture, I highly recommend
Edgar C. Whisenant's irrefutable book, "88 Reasons Why the Rapture
Could be in 1988." There you have it, chickabee.
"Whereas I was blind; now I see."
By Henry E. Panky
"One More Sign of Impending End-Times"
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